


consecration

by YouAreMyDesign



Series: holy [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Blasphemy, Bottom Will Graham, Confessional, Confessional Sex, Creampie, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Murder, Murder Kink, Priest Kink, Priest Will Graham, Religion, Religious Conflict, Scent Kink, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:37:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19120036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: "Is it not your duty, Father, to ease the suffering of your flock?"





	consecration

It is a Saturday night, and Will is alone. He hasn't seen the man – Hannibal, Will knows his name is Hannibal now – since the week before, when he'd coaxed Will to orgasm with his soft voice and violent pleasures, and though he does not want to admit it, his eyes had been casting furtive glances during the whole of the Saturday night service, aching, aching to see the dark eyes of that tempting monster that has decided to call Will his own.

But he had not seen him – not in the pews, hiding amongst the sheep. Not standing in the back, as he prefers to. Even now, in the room with the Confessional booth, Will is alone. Hannibal is the only one who comes to Confession on Saturday nights, but he's not here, and Will doesn't know how he feels about that.

He should be relieved – perhaps God finally saw fit to save him from this temptation, to remove Hannibal from his sights so that Will could rejoin the path to peace and holiness. Maybe Hannibal got caught, creating that masterpiece he promised Will, and now sits in some forsaken cell, awaiting trial. Maybe he simply grew bored.

Will's fingers curl, and he doesn't like the flicker of jealousy that starts in his chest at that particular thought. No, that he would not stand for – this monster has decided to set his sights on Will and now he'll keep them there, damn it.

He sighs, and rubs his hands over his face. He should be thankful – for whatever reason, Hannibal is not here, and so Will doesn't have to be afraid. Hannibal doesn't come at any time except Saturdays, and so Will is safe for another week. He should take this as a blessing, and a sign that he needs to reaffirm his faith, and guard himself against the temptation that is this beautiful Devil.

He waits for another five minutes, counting the seconds of the clock like a march to the guillotine, and then sighs, and pushes the curtain back, climbing out of his side of the booth. He straightens, brushing himself down – it stinks in there, still, of his seed, of sex, Will should clean it again, again, though he bleached the place to all Hell after last week.

He freezes, when there comes a knock on the door, and then it opens, revealing none other than the monster himself.

He smiles widely at Will, and Will's heart abruptly stills, and then skips into double-time. "Forgive me for my tardiness, Father," he purrs. "I was held up."

Will swallows. When not hidden by distance and shadows, Hannibal is even more striking, standing as he is a mere few feet away. He's dressed well, in a suit that Will suspects has more zeroes on the tag than any reasonable man would purchase, and his skin is golden and soft-looking. His cheekbones, sharp, are finely flushed, his hair a mesh of gold and bronze and ash slicked back in a stylish way that makes Will think of men on the covers of magazines. His lips, as full and pink as Will remembers, are parted to show his teeth.

Will looks down at his hands, and curls them, and says; "I was worried for you."

He winces, when Hannibal tilts his head, lets the door close shut as quietly as a drop of rain on asphalt and as loudly as a cannon. "Worried?" he purrs, and takes a step closer. Will should move away, but he is frozen and bound in place, and cannot move. "Why?"

"I worry for all my flock," Will says, trying to keep his voice even as Hannibal, again, steps closer. He's close enough to reach out and touch, and Will wants to, oh _Lord_ in Heaven, why does he want to so badly? "Even the wayward."

Hannibal's smile is fond, wide, and makes Will think of satyrs at play. He moves in a way almost feline, prowling; a wildcat with sights on his prey, the forest so quiet and unmoving, waiting with bated breath for him to lunge. He reaches out and gently thumbs the inner edge of Will's cassock sleeve where it hangs around his wrist.

"I am not wayward," he murmurs. "I have always known my course."

He's close enough that Will can see the different shades of amber and red in his iris, the lines marking his age around his eyes and mouth. Fitting, he thinks, that the Devil has such beautiful eyes.

Hannibal closes the rest of the distance, until Will's mouth is flooded with his scent – then, suddenly, flooded with saliva, and he swallows it back and wonders, suddenly, how he became so hungry. His chest quivers around his racing heart, his ribs brittle, his stomach empty. The only part of him that feels strong is the desire settling low, waiting like another wildcat, purring in place.

Hannibal tilts his head down, Will up, close enough, close enough now, that they'd be damned if anyone walked in and saw. "Would you like to hear my Confession?"

 _Oh, God_. Will doesn't cry out for His name, because there's no room for it in this place anymore. "Yes," he says, and steps back, and Hannibal lets him go with another smile. Will's cheeks are aflame, his thighs and knees weak – to kneel before something so powerful is a natural instinct, but he fights it with all his might. "Shall we?"

Hannibal nods, and walks into his side of the booth, Will the other. He slides the little door at eye level to one side, and this time Hannibal is staring right at him. Will looks back, because he can't look away.

Hannibal breathes in, nostrils flaring, and growls; "Come closer." Will swallows, his throat tight and wet, and leans close, and the wood between them creaks and Will knows Hannibal has a hand to the barrier, pressed tight against it like he might be able to melt through it if he tried hard enough.

His voice is right by Will's ear when he says; "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

"Tell me," Will whispers, begs with all his might. He closes his eyes and lets the darkness take him.

"I took your advice, and tried to absolve myself of this temptation, for this Holy man." Will frowns, wants to snarl in answer, that same possessive fire in his chest rearing up like War's steed. "I found one, who had the same hair, the same eyes. The same sweetness to him. I took him home with me and touched him until he screamed."

Will snarls; he doesn't want to hear this. This isn't what he wants.

"But I couldn't stop, Father," Hannibal breathes. "He wasn't the right man, wasn't Holy. He didn't taste or smell like the one I wanted." Will opens his eyes, and sees Hannibal's smile through the mesh. "So I cut him. Deeply. Through the stomach, through the skull. I destroyed this usurper and devoured him while he was still alive, to feel it."

Will sucks in a breath, and doesn't like that the emotion taming the roaring creature in his chest is closer to relief than anything else. "It wasn't right to seek other temptation," he says, hoarse and harsh. "You killed an innocent man."

"He looked like my love; that was enough for him to offend me." Hannibal's smile widens. "I want my Holy man, Father. I want him so badly it causes me such agony, to resist." Will whines, and presses his forehead to the crosshatch. Feels, gentle as silk, Hannibal's lips on the other side, trying to kiss. "Is it not your duty, Father, to ease the suffering of your flock?"

And it is – Will cannot deny that it is. His hand rests between his legs, pushing down on the bulge of his cock, and he whimpers. "I want to help you," he says. "But what you're asking for breaks every vow I've taken."

Hannibal growls, and presses against the wood so harshly Will feels the flex of it against his other hand, against his face. The air is growing so warm, Hellfire and damnation licking up Will's spine, pulsing with every beat of his racing heart. He wants, he _wants_ , God help him, he wants it.

"I would break you free from the chains your God has placed around your neck," Hannibal whispers. Will feels a dip in the mesh, a caress of Hannibal's fingers through it, against his cheek. His hips lift, seeking more pressure, seeking a firm grip or something warm and wet to sink into, and he moans raggedly, breathing heavy. "Surrender, and find freedom with me."

Will whimpers, and suddenly cannot take it anymore. He closes the little door and throws himself out of the booth, panting in the bright lights and open air. Hannibal follows him smoothly, prowling around to face Will. Will looks at him, and feels meek and terrible in his eyes, but Hannibal smiles, gaze raking over him, dark and wanting, and he holds out a hand.

"Come to me, darling."

Will goes, for he has no choice. He sinks into Hannibal's grip on him, lets him touch until his fingers find Will's throat and slide back, gripping his neck. His fingers dig under the collar of Will's cassock and find the clerical collar.

He peels it apart, and holds it in his hands, and Will doesn't know why he does it, but he fits his hands together as though in prayer, and shivers when Hannibal wraps the collar around his wrists, binding it tight. He yanks Will to him, then, and cups his skull, fingers curling strong and wide through his hair, and kisses him with Hellfire. He burns, Lord how he burns, and bites until Will's lips part with a gasp, and the taste of him is sweeter than any sacramental wine, more filling than any consecrated bread. Will clutches at his suit jacket and feels more holy than ever when he manages to pull a ragged, desperate sound from Hannibal's throat.

Hannibal pulls back, lets him breathe, and then guides him back into the booth, on Will's side. He sits, and pulls Will to him, parting his cassock at the back and yanking savagely on Will's slacks, his underwear, until he's bare and bound, trembling in Hannibal's arms.

Hannibal works a hand between them, parting his own clothes, and his other hand flattens on Will's forehead, makes him tilt back, and up, so he's looking to the ceiling. Growls into his ear; "Confess."

Will is allowed only a moment, and a cursory spread of spit, before Hannibal lifts him and fits his cockhead against Will's entrance, and forces him to sink down. The sharp split of his body around Hannibal's cock lights him on fire, makes him spasm and gasp, tensing up, trying to pull away, but then Hannibal's arm is around his waist, forcing him down, and he sinks in all the way and Will can't retreat.

"Confess," Hannibal says again. "I won't mark unholy ground, Father."

"Oh, God, forgive me," Will cries, shuddering as Hannibal rolls his hips, forcing Will apart, forcing him to merely take it. He holds Will like he weighs no more than a doll, spreads his thighs so Will's are forced to part, braced over him, and pushes his hand cavalier and careless against the bulge of Will's cock, still trapped in his clothes.

"Do you think He will?" Hannibal asks, and laughs when Will cannot answer. "Don't cry out for Him. He's not here – I am."

Will closes his eyes, groans as Hannibal starts to move against him in earnest – with the way they're positioned, he cannot thrust with much force, but every part of him burns and Will's body is starving, empty, aching to be filled. Hannibal fits his teeth below Will's ear and bites, and Will chokes on his saliva.

"Forgive me," he whispers again.

"What for?"

"For making you wait," Will says, for he knows that's what Hannibal wants. Big cats like him don't have the capacity for patience and understanding, not unless it pertains to the hunt; the kill. No, they know only to savor, and bathe in the blood of their prey, and Will is the sacrificial lamb, split open and bleating helplessly as he's devoured. "For your suffering. Please, Hannibal, forgive me."

"What else?" Hannibal purrs, and reaches beneath Will's cassock, tugging his slacks down, until he can worm his hand beneath Will's underwear and find his leaking cock. Will whimpers, tensing up around him, and Hannibal shudders and snarls; the scent of sex lingers, heavy in the little space, so damp and hot, this is what Hell smells like, and Will _likes_ it.

"For denying you," Will breathes. He turns his head, cups Hannibal's cheek with bound hands. "I'm sorry. Forgive me."

Hannibal smiles, and kisses him soft and pleased. "You are forgiven, darling," he purrs. Only God can forgive, but Hannibal is like God now. His hand is still on Will's forehead, and slides to his hair now, yanking on it savagely until Will whimpers and spasms around him, settles hard over his thighs until Hannibal is fully sheathed. It hurts, it burns terribly, it's Sulphur and brimstone and everything Will was taught to fear.

"Oh, Will," Hannibal sighs, and nuzzles the welt on Will's neck, squeezes his cock and strokes with tight, precise motions – too dry, it aches and chafes, but Will understands Hannibal wants it to hurt. He doesn't want something as simple as a shower to wash away his claim on Will.

He lets go of Will, suddenly, and shoves him to his shaking legs. The booth is too small for him to stand upright, and Will falls against the opposite wall, bound hands catching him but then Hannibal is there, and forces Will's cassock aside again, and shoves his cock back into Will. He fucks with enough force that Will's cheek grinds on the wood.

"Mark it," Hannibal growls, teeth at his nape, and pulls Will's cock free, angles him to the wall. "Give yourself to me, wholly, and I will make you Holy again."

An agent of Hell, a slave to his master, Will closes his eyes and whimpers as Hannibal fucks him, harsh and loud, snarling deep in his chest. The roar in Will's ears gains pitch, and volume, and maybe God is sending his Angels down to smite him where he stands, for daring to give into temptation.

But God is not here. Just Hannibal.

He grits his teeth and whimpers as he comes, obeying his new God, and spills thick and warm over the wood in front of him. His seed drips, staining Hannibal's hand, his slacks, dripping onto his shoes. Marked, dirty; _God,_ what has he done? But Hannibal is still there, and smiling with all his teeth, and tugs on Will's hair with his dirty hand, clutches his hip.

Goes still, and comes with a grunt. Sensitive as Will is, his rim stinging from the sudden stretch, he feels every pulse as Hannibal's thick cock twitches and spills inside him. Feels his seed leaking out, slicking his thighs. Feels Hannibal vibrate with satisfaction, and he sighs warm and wet against Will's nape, and pulls out with another slick sound.

Will falls to his knees, nails dragging along the wood, and Hannibal sits, correcting his clothes. Will can't breathe, can't find the air that doesn't reek of his sin, and he closes his eyes and sobs, wretched and dry, against his bound hands.

He whines at the touch of a gentle hand in his hair, and turns, collapsing on his heels, every inch of him shaking. Hannibal cups his jaw and tilts his head up, and Will opens his eyes and knows he isn't showing anything but rapture.

"Are you going to abandon me, like He did?" he whispers.

Hannibal smiles, wide, so wide, and leans down to kiss Will's forehead. "No, darling, never," he purrs. His eyes shine in the darkness, brimming with fire, with satisfaction. "But will you stay, and serve a God who has abandoned you?"

Will swallows, and whispers, "I can't."

Hannibal's lashes dip low, and he cups Will's face with both hands, and kisses him fiercely. "Your poor little lambs," he says, and laughs. "Whatever will they do without you?"

"Be devoured by the wolves, I imagine."

Hannibal's eyes flash, and he smiles again. His hands drop to Will's wrists, and he unwinds the collar from around them, and drops it to the floor, discarded like a piece of trash. It means nothing to him. "Some may survive," he purrs, and whether he is seeking to soothe Will, or not, Will cannot tell, but he doesn't care.

"Am I coming with you?" he whispers.

Hannibal grins at him, and kisses Will, deeply, a purring wildcat that has found a suitable hunting partner. "Of course you are," he growls, and digs his nails into Will's neck. "You're mine."

Will smiles. He quite likes the sound of that.


End file.
